


Hear Him Calling For My Soul

by Carrieosity



Series: Tumblr Bunnies and Ficlets - Supernatural [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Deaf Character, Deaf Dean Winchester, First Meetings, M/M, Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 13:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: Castiel's soulmark was heartbreaking; Dean had no soulmark at all. Of course, at the end of the world, nobody's paying attention to soulmarks at all any more, let alone what they might mean.





	Hear Him Calling For My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt, from [holy-tax-accountant](https://holy-tax-accountant.tumblr.com/): "apocalypse/soulmate? Destiel or DCJ - Please and thanks so much, I love your writing and I love these mashups :D"

In the end, all of the worrying, teasing, pitying looks, and well-meaning words that had stung more than they comforted—all of it wound up not meaning anything. Worldwide disasters on an apocalyptic scale had a way of putting things in perspective, and even a mysterious soulmate who had never appeared in one’s life takes a backseat in the face of focusing on the more basic levels on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

Find shelter; escape the deadly ice and snow. Find food, or starve. Find clean water, or die before starvation can become an issue. Ice can be melted, which solves the water problem, but fire can be trickier than food when all the wood is frozen or wet. 

Safety was technically higher on Maslow’s pyramid than any of that, but, Castiel Novak noted wryly, if you can’t fend off danger in some way, none of it matters at all. Luckily, the first abandoned house he’d found when shit had gone down had contained an axe and some good, large knives. They’d all come in handy, multiple times.

How long had he been wandering? Castiel ran a hand down his face, threading his fingers through the dark, unkempt beard that there was no point in removing. He’d definitely lost weight, and his hair had grown long enough to curl messily at the base of his neck, but he’d lost count of any metrics regarding the actual passage of time. For a while, when the first storm hit, the sky had stayed dark both day and night, no sunlight visible at all, and that had set the pattern for marking time based on physiological need rather than obsolete displays on dusty clock faces. Sleep when tired, eat when hungry.

Die when luck runs out.

“This guy’s luck did,” Castiel mused out loud to himself as he settled back in an easy chair that faced a brick fireplace. He didn’t dare build a fire that would generate much smoke, even if he had enough burnable material to do it; columns of smoke were as good as a signal flare, screaming “COME RAID ME” for anyone with eyes. Instead, he had a small flame dancing, and he’d done his best to divert the smoke into the house rather than through the chimney, figuring there was no point in worrying over smoke damage or breathing issues at this point. 

While he waited for the chunk of ice in the battered stockpot to melt and come to a boil, Castiel let his eyes drift over the possessions strewn about the house, the things whoever had lived here hadn’t tried to take with them. It was obvious that the place had been hit by looters at least once or twice before Castiel had found his way here, but even the secondhand ransacking had left behind things like family portraits and random mementos. One framed photo hung askew on the wall, showing a happy couple in summery outfits. Along her bare shoulder, words in black script were visible:  **_My pleasure_ ** **.** The man’s soulmark was mostly covered by his sleeve, but the letters poking out from the fabric were similarly benign:  **_I’m glad_ ** …

Castiel snorted.  _ Talk about obsolete displays. _

There was a time, before any of this, when soulmarks were a thing of vital importance, clues there from birth that would guide a person to the other half of their heart. It wasn’t foolproof, and not all soul matches guaranteed a life filled with bliss and love. Some people never even met their soulmates, due to bad timing or even the premature death of the person they were meant to find. It was considered a tragedy, but a fluke of one. Most people, especially in an era where the internet could provide the assist, were able to locate their mates at some point, and most people found themselves willing to put in the extra work to maintain the connection once they had it.

And then half the population wound up…out of the dating pool, on a permanent basis. 

Castiel’s hand drifted to his own collarbone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at his mark. Even before the disaster, he’d avoided it when he could, and now that there was no point in bothering with mirrors, he could almost forget it was there. Perhaps the mark, in an unlikely show of self-awareness, knew he was growing close to being able to forget it, because lately it had seemed to almost burn beneath the surface of his skin. 

_ Wait, is that even the mark? Did I get scratched near there, and now I’m just ignoring some sort of growing infection? _

“Ugh,” he groaned, hoisting himself to his feet. Better safe than sorry. Following the most likely path to where a main floor bathroom should be, Castiel shoved open a door—dark, windowless, but definitely what he wanted. After making a side trip back to his bag for a candle, Castiel stood in front of the cracked, dirty mirror and unbuttoned his shirt.

No scratch. No infection. Just a timidly scribbled phrase, as though the person who would speak it was embarrassed about what this type of soulmark would indicate:  **_I can’t. I’m sorry._ **

Castiel rebuttoned his shirt as quickly as he could.

* * *

Dean Winchester had been lonely his entire life, even when he had family and friends surrounding him. Now, being actually and literally on his own, he wondered whether all that loneliness had been in preparation for this.

He hoped Sam was still alive and okay somewhere. His brother always had been resourceful. If he and his Stanford buddies had survived the initial wave of devastation, Dean figured they could have formed a plan to stay safe and outfitted to tough it out.

Of course, that assumed there would ever be an end to this, something to tough it out in order to reach. But at least a couple of the friends Sam had mentioned in his phone calls and emails—Brady, maybe? And some sorority sister of Jessica’s—were taking courses in horticulture and botany. Sam said they’d been growing marijuana-catnip hybrid plants in their basements, trying to make something that would be legal and sustainable. Maybe they could turn their talents into something useful in a world that was going to need more wheat than weed pretty soon.

Not that Dean would ever know. Even if cell phones still got service, or the power grid to charge them was still up. Even if everything was going great for Sam and his group of friends, and he had the luxury of dropping Dean a call now and then to keep him updated. Hell, Dean’s non-working phone could magically reanimate this very minute, start ringing for all it was worth with an almighty racket, and  _ Dean wouldn’t know. _

He still couldn’t believe it. After all the work he’d done to convince himself that he wouldn’t die in a plane crash, and that flying to see one’s brother was something that normal people did every day, it turned out that just being in a damn airport, the epitome of the wrong place at the wrong time, was probably going to be the choice that did him in. 

When the sirens had started blaring and the news reports had started screaming about evacuations and martial law, Dean had been in the middle of the concourse, trapped in a herd of panicked people who had reacted in exactly the way panicked herds usually do, and he’d been knocked off his feet and onto the ground, kicked around helplessly and trampled senseless. By the time he’d regained some form of consciousness, he began to realize that the ringing in his ears was only partly due to the sirens.

Eventually, the ringing faded. The rest of his hearing had never returned.

_ At least I don’t have to worry about not holding up my end of a conversation I can’t hear,  _ he thought darkly. It was only through sheer luck that he’d managed to survive this long without being able to hear sounds of danger around him. He was getting used to making sure to position his back to walls so that nothing could sneak up from behind, to using traps instead of trying to hunt for animals to eat, and to the weight of a silence that would probably never be broken.

Dean felt the snow cracking under his boots as he walked. It was probably making a godawful racket, but there was no sign that anyone or anything had been by here anytime recently, so he kept moving, trying to make it to somewhere sheltered while there was still light by which to see. If he’d lost any of his vision along with his hearing…he didn’t even want to think about that.

He was lonely, but at least he wasn’t a burden on anyone. Sam…if he was here, Sam would be trying so hard to take care of himself and Dean, and he’d probably be putting himself in all kinds of danger to do it.  _ Better this way. _ If Dean got killed, it wouldn’t be on anyone’s conscience besides his killer’s, and nobody else would have to feel responsible. Not his brother, not a friend, nobody.

_ Hell, guess it’s actually a good thing I never had a soulmate, after all. _ Sam would have argued that, Dean knew. He always had excuses about why Dean was born without a soulmark, or assurances that he’d still be able to find the perfect partner even without stupid words written on his skin. Sam had tried to hide his own,  **_New here?_ ** , as though just the sight of it would cause Dean pain, but that had almost felt worse. In the end, Dean had been right: there would be no partner for him. But he was fine with that. He was fine.

He was freezing, but he was fine.

There, up ahead…Dean saw a gravel path that had once been a driveway, now overgrown with weeds and brush. Squinting into the dusk and the lightly falling snow, Dean saw the corner of a house, the surrounding trees obscuring the rest of it. He paused, watching and waiting. On several occasions, not jumping straight into a potential shelter had saved his life, since squatters rarely liked to share space these days.

Was there someone else in there? It was hard to tell, with no power to light windows or spill cooking smells into the air. Dean could see the front door from where he was standing in the shadows of the trees, and there were no footprints in the snow leading to it, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t hidden beneath what had fallen after anyone in there had arrived. There might also be a back door, too. Was that a faint line of smoke coming from the chimney? It was so hard to tell.

A strong gust of wind cut through Dean’s coat, the kind that he knew from memory howled like a wild animal. He didn’t need to hear it to feel the way it sliced at his skin like a knife. Gritting his teeth against his desire to rush into a hasty decision, Dean began edging around the house, studying every window and searching for any evidence of danger.

* * *

Castiel was standing by the kitchen sink, rummaging through the drawers for a knife sharpener that might have been left behind, when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, he puffed out the small candle sitting on the counter, then peered through the window into the swirling snow. An animal? Something he could catch? Or someone looking for supplies, who wouldn’t hesitate to take them by force if necessary?

It was a long moment before he saw the movement again, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. That shadow in the trees was definitely human, and it was definitely studying this house. Castiel hoped he’d managed to put out his light before it had been spotted, but there was no way to know for certain. He had to assume the lurker knew there was at least one person inside. Perhaps his hesitance was over whether there could be more than one, though, and Castiel could work that to his advantage.

The front door was on the opposite side of the house, and he made his way to it quickly, exiting as silently as he could. Once outside, he ducked into the trees, deeper into the grove than the shadowy figure had been, and stealthily crept toward where he’d seen the person. If they were still watching the house, he might be able to come up behind them, using surprise instead of just waiting to be attacked.

The person wasn’t as hard to find as Castiel had expected. It was obvious that they were trying to be secretive, but, well, they weren’t doing a very good job of it. The noises of their footsteps, the sounds their jacket made as it brushed against branches…he wondered if they were simply too desperate to care. Desperate people were dangerous people. Castiel gripped his axe tightly as he approached.

At the last moment, just as Castiel raised his arm, the person seemed abruptly to sense the threat. They spun, throwing up their arm in defense, as they ducked low. Castiel was caught off-guard by the leg that swept out, kicking at his knees, and he stumbled backward. He shouted wordlessly as he recovered from the trip, then bared his teeth and readied himself to rush forward again. 

The stranger was a young man, maybe in his thirties, with a face so pale it seemed to blend into the snow. Whether that was his normal complexion or due to fright or trauma, Castiel had no time to learn. The man’s eyes were wide, and he looked more startled than deadly, but looks could be deceiving. “Put your hands where I can see them!” Castiel hissed. “I won’t hesitate to use this!” He had hesitated, the first time; it had been awful, and he still had nightmares, but he’d had no choice but to learn. They’d all had to learn.

This man, though, had apparently not learned. Rather than lifting his hands, he’d balled them tight in front of him, crouching defensively. He scowled, shaking his head, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet.

“I said, show me your goddamn hands!” Castiel shouted. “If you have any weapons, drop them now! Drop them, or lose the hand.” He brandished the axe again, praying the man wouldn’t try to call his bluff.

The man’s frown deepened. His eyes shifted between the axe and Castiel’s face, seeming to focus on his mouth. He huffed loudly, an expression of frustration replacing his alarm. Finally, as Castiel wondered whether he’d have to push his threat into action, the man opened his mouth and coughed. It was a dry, rough sound, as though he hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“I can’t—” the man started to say, then broke off with a growl, shaking his head again. He jerked a thumb toward his ear, then made a fluttering motion with his fingers, as if to convey helplessness. “I’m sorry,” he finished. His words sounded strange, too slow and too loud, but Castiel was in too much shock to process that.

_ This is my soulmate. _

He dropped the axe. The man startled again at the movement, jumping backward and almost falling. Castiel quickly lifted his hands, palms out. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to…” The man was shaking his head again, looking exasperated, and Castiel rolled his eyes at his own obtuseness. “You can’t hear me,” he said. “You’re deaf. Okay, shit. Let me just…”

Keeping his hands up, he slowly circled around the man, maintaining eye contact and trying to look like someone who wasn’t about to kill a stranger with an axe only moments before. When he was between the man and the house, he turned sideways and motioned for the man to come with him. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to mouth the words exaggeratedly. “Come.”

Whether he was understood, or whether the man just figured that he’d rather die inside than out, they both wound up in the living room in front of the fire. Deciding that the man’s ashen skin, which he could now see was due to the cold, changed the risk-reward balance, Castiel built up the flames a little more, positioning the man where he could avail himself of the warmth. When the stranger’s shivering had abated, Castiel sat down in front of him, locking eyes once more.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt collar, lowering the fabric. At first, the man tensed, not understanding. Then he saw the words.  **_I can’t. I’m sorry._ ** A few seconds passed, and then his eyes, which were glittering bright green in the firelight, went wide again in realization. He inhaled sharply, and then his shoulders started to shake.

It took Castiel a moment to realize—his soulmate was  _ laughing. _

He had no idea what was so funny, and he was beginning to wonder if he should be offended, when the man, wiping tears from his eyes, raised a hand and began to pantomime writing. Castiel went in search of a pencil and paper, finding both in a bedroom on a desk. Still chuckling, the man began to scratch a note.  _ Guess that explains why I don’t have a soulmark, _ he said.  _ Whatever you said to me out there, I couldn’t hear it. _

Now Castiel started laughing. Taking the pencil, he wrote underneath,  _ That’s actually a good thing. You wouldn’t want to have grown up with a death threat on your skin. _

They both cackled loudly, collapsing sideways into each other. It was the end of the world, perhaps, and maybe neither of them would survive to see another week, but here, in this moment, there was nothing but relief, companionship, and perhaps the first ember of hope.

_ I’m Dean, _ the man wrote, smiling so widely that his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Castiel wondered if he’d ever seen anything so lovely in his life.

_ Castiel, _ he wrote in return, then chuckled at Dean’s comedic expression of skepticism over his unusual name.  _ It’s an angelic name. _ Dean snorted, rolling his eyes, then doodled a ferocious little angel on the page, complete with both harp and axe in hand, which had them both laughing hard again.

Worldwide disasters put things in perspective. Some things, though, simply defy explanation or logic. Water outweighs food, security outweighs the social contract, and when the two men drifted off to sleep that night, arms draped around each other’s torsos in a tentative show of budding affection, all those needs felt a little less sharp.


End file.
